


Opinion is the medium between knowledge and ignorance

by ImogenGotDrunk



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Connor and his dumb freckles, Connor centric, Depression, Enemies to Friends, Fluff, Hank is Hank, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pacifist Route, Pining, Pre-Slash, References to Suicide, Slow Burn, hints of more, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-05-30 08:45:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15093254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImogenGotDrunk/pseuds/ImogenGotDrunk
Summary: Hank made his view on androids very clear. No one could mistake where the Lieutenant stood on that particular subject. But as he and Connor begin working together, his opinions seem to drastically change. The only conclusion Connor can come to is that he himself is responsible for it.It must be another instability in his software. After all, changing Hank’s mind was never part of the mission.





	1. To err is human

**Author's Note:**

> Title quote from Plato.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Alexander Pope

**_PROCESSING DATA..........  
100%_ **

**_MATCH:  
LT. ANDERSON, HANK_ **

Connor straightens his tie and approaches. First impressions, he knows, are very important.

“Lieutenant Anderson. My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by CyberLife.”

He takes in the Lieutenant’s appearance, now that he’s relatively unobscured. Nothing like the clean-cut profile Connor’s facial recognition scan had given him, although it couldn’t possibly be a mistake. This was Lieutenant Hank Anderson of the DPD. Greying hair, years grown-out; Connor’s interface supplies him with the adjectives  _shaggy_ and _unkempt_  to best fit a description. The same stark, blue irises as his profile, but glazed over and unfocused. Worn clothing, weary expression.

“I looked for you at the station but nobody knew where you were,” Connor continues. “They said you were probably having a drink nearby. I was lucky to find you at the fifth bar.” The last comment is unnecessary at the least, passive aggressive at most. But then again, it was also unnecessary for Connor to have checked five bars when the Lieutenant could have easily remained at the precinct that night like all the other officers.

“What do you want?”

The Lieutenant barely spares Connor a glance. A gruff voice, words partially slurred. His fingers are clutched unsteadily around a whisky tumbler. There are also potent traces of alcohol, slivered in trails through a beard very closely matching his hair. _Shaggy_ and _un_ _kempt_.

**_PROCESSING..........  
100%_ **

**_CURRENT STATUS:  
INEBRIATED_ **

Connor makes sure to enunciate his debrief very clearly. There can be no time to waste on misunderstandings. “You were assigned a case early this evening. A homicide, involving a CyberLife android. In accordance with procedure, the company has allocated a specialized model to assist investigators.”

“Well, I don’t need any _assistance_.” The Lieutenant spits the word as though it has personally offended him. Connor isn’t certain where he’s gone wrong. “Specially not from a plastic asshole like you. So why don’t you be a good lil’ robot and get the fuck outta here.”

**_HOSTILITY DETECTED  
<“Plastic asshole”>_ **

**_PROCESSING..........  
100%_ **

**_CONCLUSION:  
ANTI-ANDROID_ **

“I understand that some people are not comfortable in the presence of androids, but I am–”

“I am perfectly comfortable.” Connor would like to point out that the Lieutenant’s tone highly contradicts that statement. As does his following threat. “Now back off, before I crush you like an empty beer can!”

The Lieutenant’s sour attitude endures for far longer than Connor should tolerate, despite relaying his instructions from CyberLife quite clearly. The Lieutenant proceeds to ask him if he knows where he can stick his instructions – Connor is still rather unclear as to where –  and quickly returns to nursing his drink.

It may have been impolite to spill the whiskey, and not at all an amiable first impression. But Connor himself is hardly at fault for them _getting off_ , as the saying goes, _on the wrong foot_. And he can hardly dwell on it when the Lieutenant shoulders open the door and disappears outside.

Once this case is solved, they can go their separate ways. And the investigation is now officially underway.

Connor straightens his tie again, and joins the Lieutenant at his car.

*******

The Lieutenant is a careful driver. Connor find this surprising. Considering he had consumed more alcohol than strictly recommended for being on the road, he seems to have sobered up in record time. Enough to help reconstruct the crime scene at Carlos Ortiz’s house. Enough to express his apparent disapproval over Connor’s sampling process.

And enough to lock a pair of handcuffs onto Ortiz’s android and lower its head into the police car. They are following Detective Collins and Officer Miller back to the precinct now.

Connor finds the Lieutenant’s music remarkably distracting and difficult to drown out.

“So,” his reluctant partner begins. Connor detects that his voice, while still full of distaste, is now lacking the outright hatred expressed at the bar. The Lieutenant’s hostility has decreased considerably over the course of the night, beginning when he had joined Connor in Ortiz’s garden to be told that the back door wasn’t the killer’s means of escape. “You could tell the fight started in the kitchen? Just from less than a minute of snoopin’ around in there?”

Connor inclines his head. “Correct. The rack of knives was opposite the entrance and one was clearly missing: the murder weapon. The bat had been dropped nearby, after the android attacked Ortiz. The chairs and table, as you saw, were disarranged: a struggle. Ortiz’s blood was present on the walls and floor leading to the living room, where his body was found. So it all had to have started in the kitchen.”

“Shit.” Chuckling. The Lieutenant is chuckling, and Connor isn’t sure why. It is a rough sound, more dryly barked-out than willingly made, but Connor’s audio processors pick up a genuine trace of mirth as well, however small it may have been. “CyberLife really cut no corners with you, huh. State of the fucking art.”

“I did explain that I was a specialised model,” Connor sees fit to remind him. “My primary directive is to assist investigators–”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, so you’ve said. Jesus.” The Lieutenant makes a signal to turn onto the main road leading back to central Detroit. “Lemme tell you, I’ll be having words with Fowler about this bullshit. Best for both of us,” he adds, side-eyeing Connor up and down with a bitter expression. “Get you reassigned to someone else as fast as fucking possible. Can’t be dealing with this shit.”

The Lieutenant’s eyes return to being staunchly fixed on the road.

Connor nods to himself. “Whatever you say, Lieutenant.”

The possibility of being reassigned can only be good news. Connor had begun to doubt the efficiency of both CyberLife and the DPD; why assign him or this case to Lieutenant Anderson in the first place? The Lieutenant hadn’t even wanted to remain at Ortiz’s house long enough to review all the evidence.

“Five minutes, Lieutenant. That’s all I ask.”

Connor had been surprised that he’d agreed. Despite the Lieutenant’s obvious competence at the crime scene – once he had decided to stay – Connor has concluded that he is overall unfocused and ill-tempered. He would go as far as to deem him unprofessional.

But the Lieutenant is right about one thing: being reassigned would be best for the both of them.

Connor hadn’t noticed two of his fingers tapping along with the music. He stills them immediately, and returns his gaze to the window.

*******

“You shouldn’t touch it. It’ll self-destruct if it feels threatened.”

“Stay outta this, got it? No fuckin’ android is gonna tell me what to do.”

“You don’t understand, if it self-destructs we won’t get anything out of it!”

“I told you to shut your fuckin’ mouth! Chris, gonna move this asshole or what?”

“I’m trying!”

“I can’t let you do that!” Connor rushes forward. **_Software instability ^^_** “Leave it alone, now!”

He pulls Officer Miller away firmly, and to a safe distance. They can’t afford to let the deviant self-destruct, the potential risk is far too high. Officer Miller is carrying a gun; a close-range weapon and easily within reach of the android. There could be casualties if its stress levels rose any higher.

And yet still, Connor hears a gun being cocked. In very close proximity to his own head. “I warned you, motherfucker!”

Detective Gavin Reed. Born in 2002. Past issues with anger, and thoroughly disliked throughout the DPD.

As he turns to face the barrel of the weapon, Connor is starting to see why that is.

“That’s enough!” The Lieutenant’s gruff order is unexpected. The reminder **_< < _** ** _ANTI-ANDROID <<_** returns to flit through Connor’s processors. From the man’s attitude that evening, Connor would have expected the idea of a bullet lodged in his cranial unit to be anything but unwelcome to the Lieutenant.

Perhaps the mention of Connor’s being worth a small fortune at the bar has made that prospect less appealing to him.

“Mind your own business, Hank,” Reed grates out, teeth visibly gritted.

“I said,” and the Lieutenant draws his own gun and points it at Detective Reed’s head from across the room, “that’s enough.”

Connor watches as Reed considers ignoring. He observes the little twitches across his face; the way his mouth screws into a tight line, how his nostrils flare. It isn’t pride that has Connor staring him down, but it’s a close thing.

Reed bites out a harsh curse and lowers the weapon, aiming an accusatory and threatening finger towards the Lieutenant. “You’re not gonna get away with it this time.” A final look at Connor, anger and resentment only too obvious, and he skulks from the room.

The second he is gone, Connor crouches to the deviant’s eye-level. “Everything is all right. It’s over now.” Ortiz’s android is still shaking. Connor scans him again.

**_STRESS LEVEL STABALISING..........  
50%_ **

There is no immediate danger now, at least. “Nobody is gonna hurt you.” Connor straightens and fixes his attention on Officer Miller. “Please, don’t touch it. Let it follow you out of the room and it won’t cause any trouble.”

Connor and the Lieutenant observe carefully as the deviant gets to its feet. It tells him something as it passes, that _the truth is inside_. There would be time to learn more another day; the android is still in working order, no thanks to Detective Reed, and would perhaps be less cryptic given the opportunity to recover somewhere in the precinct.

The Lieutenant remains by the door, even when Officer Miller has escorted the deviant away. He is watching Connor.

“You all right?”

Connor feels himself frown at the question. “I am perfectly fine, Lieutenant.” **_< < _** ** _ANTI-ANDROID << _**makes a return trip through his processors once again. As well as being wholly redundant – Connor is an android and therefore there was never technically any threat to his life. He is not alive – the Lieutenant’s concern doesn’t make any sense. “You pulled your gun on a fellow officer. You realise that you will likely receive a disciplinary warning for your actions towards Detective Reed.”

The Lieutenant opens his mouth. In disbelief? To argue? His face soon settles into something that Connor has come to identify as his customary expression: a sordid blend of irritation and contempt. “Yeah, well, you’re fucking welcome. Plastic piece of shit.”

The Lieutenant leaves the room.

**_< < ANTI-ANDROID ANTI-ANDROID <<_ **

Connor puts his information retrieval on standby. The constant recalls are beginning to feel strained, they are happening so quickly.

But it still doesn’t make any sense. The Lieutenant had scarcely made eye contact with him since Connor had introduced himself. He had been loath to cooperate, was curt and short-tempered at the crime scene, and had seemed overall indifferent to allowing Connor to enter the interrogation room.

It was only after Connor had gotten the information out of Ortiz’s android…

Interesting. The Lieutenant himself had appeared frustrated by the deviant’s lack of cooperation. Perhaps it was because Connor had made substantial progress that he had felt the need to defend–

No, that explanation doesn’t correlate with the Lieutenant’s personality at all.

Connor could have taken a different approach to the interrogation itself, upon reflection. He could have pressured the deviant into talking – he knew the signs and details of Ortiz’s abuse, after all – or probed its memory to goad a confession. Hypothetically, either of those would have been faster. But he had chosen to convince it instead, and now it… what? Trusted him? An emulation of trust, at least. No machine could ever truly trust.

A lapse in memory, then. Connor decides that is the best explanation for Lieutenant Anderson’s abrupt and brief change of heart. The Lieutenant had experienced a lapse in his memory, overlooked the fact that Connor is a machine due to his compassion ** _Software instability ^^_** due to his emulation of compassion towards the deviant during the interrogation.

Connor keys in a reminder to avoid such actions again in the future, particularly if he and the Lieutenant are to soon be reassigned from one another. It wouldn’t do for his new partner to start believing him capable of emotion.

*******

The garden is exceedingly pleasant today. Bright and quiet, with only a faint breeze rustling the plants and rippling across the water. No wonder Amanda has always appeared so content here.

She is at the rose lattices as usual, keeping and watering them. The flowers are in bloom; healthy and full. They always are.

“Hello, Amanda.”

She seems pleased with him after the interrogation. _Remarkably efficient_ , she says. It is always good to have Amanda’s positive feedback. It normally means things are moving along at an acceptable pace. The investigation may be over in a few weeks at this rate.

“This Lieutenant Anderson has been officially assigned to the deviancy case.” Connor had expected she would want to discuss the Lieutenant; an unforeseen spanner in their otherwise scrupulous works. "What do you make of him?”

“I think he’s irritable.” It is all too easy for Connor to give his answer. He has drawn several conclusions about the Lieutenant from the previous evening. Few of them are positive. “And socially challenged.”

_‘Okay, so your theory’s not totally ridiculous.’_

_‘Oh… But I bet you can still see it, can’t you?’_

_‘That’s enough!’_

_‘Stay out this, Hank!’_

_‘I said, that’s enough.’_

****

**_Software instability ^^_ **

“But I also think he used to be a good detective.” The Lieutenant’s aptitude at Ortiz’s house hadn’t been lost on Connor. Nor had his clear sense of duty when he had defended Connor and the deviant from Detective Reed. Connor decides that it would be… unfair, to brush over the Lieutenant’s more positive qualities simply due to his abrasive manner. “He’s an intriguing character.”

The response seemed neutral enough. And Amanda seems more than satisfied.

“Unfortunately, we have no choice but to work with him.”

“Perhaps we do. The Lieutenant stated that he would see about removing himself from the deviancy case altogether. He believed it would be best, considering his apparent aversion to androids, and I am in agreement. He was less than willing to accompany me to the crime scene.”

Amanda hums. “That might be the best outcome for everyone, then. We’ll see what his superior has to say when the time comes. For now, keep on as you have been, Connor. These deviants must be hunted down before this becomes widespread. You are the most advanced prototype CyberLife has ever created. If anyone can get to the bottom of this, it’s you.”

Connor laces his hands behind his back, and gives a small, impartial smile. “You can count on me, Amanda.”

*******

Connor can’t experience frustration, exactly. But he imagines that it triggers a similar response in humans as it does to his bio-components, all of which he can feel tighten to the point of constriction when Captain Fowler makes his orders clear. Lieutenant Anderson is to remain on the case. Connor is to remain as his partner.

It is an undesirable outcome. The Lieutenant is not best suited to this investigation.

Still, Connor is nothing if not proficient. He lets none of his disapproval be known to his superior. “Have a nice day, Captain.”

Connor is resolved, then, to try and adapt to the Lieutenant’s personality. If they have no choice but to work together, the most efficient approach must be to maintain civility and avoid unnecessary confrontation.

“I get the impression my presence causes you some inconvenience, Lieutenant.” **_< < _** ** _ANTI-ANDROID ANTI-ANDROID << _**The slogan’s jotted around the Lieutenant’s desk have at least proved that Connor’s informational processors are working at optimal capacity. “I’d like you to know I’m very sorry about that.”

Silence. _Sullen_ silence. Connor doesn’t know why he’d expected something else.

“In any case, I’d like you to know I’m very happy to be working with you.” It is the recollection of their productivity at Ortiz’s crime scene that sways Connor to add, with confidence, “I’m sure we’ll make a great team.”

Connor sits at the spare desk a moment later, discouraged by the Lieutenant’s persistent efforts to ignore him. An unsettling sense of failure comes over him; the same, sinking sensation he had experienced during the interrogation last night, when it seemed Ortiz’s android would remain silent despite Connor’s meticulous approach.

Succeeding in this investigation is crucial to CyberLife. It is Connor’s singular purpose. It’s that knowledge alone that pushes Connor to keep making conversation, though to anyone else it might have looked like stubbornness – an android can not be stubborn.

“Do you listen to Knights of the Black Death? I really like that music.”

It provokes a reaction. Astonishment. Suspicion. “You listen to heavy metal?”

The truth: “Well, I don’t really listen to music as such.” And a lie: “But I’d like to.

Well, maybe not a complete lie. The Lieutenant’s music in the car had been intriguing. And Connor had liked **_Software instability ^^_** the music Emma Phillips had been listening to in her bedroom at 1554 Park Avenue.

Connor allows a few minutes to tick by while he browses the deviancy files, before trying again.

“You have a dog, right?”

The Lieutenant meets his gaze for approximately two point six seconds longer than the last time. “How do you know that?”

“The dog hairs on your chair.”

That earns him a relatively unimpressed expression. More silence. Connor tries once again.

“I like dogs.” They are loyal, obedient. They do as they are told, for the most part. Connor likes the way they stick out their tongues when they’re too hot. **_Software instability ^^_**   “What’s your dog’s name?”

“What’s it to you?”

This is obviously getting him nowhere. Perhaps–

“Sumo.” The Lieutenant’s gaze is fixed on his computer screen, but still. “I call him Sumo.”

Progress. Connor nods to himself, before returning to the files. Progress is good.

Of course, this particular success is shattered when the Lieutenant grabs him by the collar and hoists him against his terminal, sneering about throwing all androids into dumpsters and setting a match to them.

But Officer Miller also brings them a lead.

 _You win some, you lose some_ , as the saying went. Connor decides to count that morning as a win, as he follows the Lieutenant to his car once again.

*******

Fear. Connor sees genuine fear in the deviant’s eyes. Not for itself, but for its companion. Connor recognises the model as a YK-500, one of the first child android models to have made it out of the advanced testing phase and into public circulation.

They are heading for the highway.

“Oh fuck, that’s insane…” The Lieutenant has doubled over at his side, audibly out of breath.

The deviants have stopped at the holographic barrier. They are hesitating. **_> > _ _Catch them >> _**This is Connor’s chance. **_> > _** ** _Catch them Catch them >>_** He pulls himself up the fence–

“Hey!” A sharp tug on his forearm jolts him back onto the ground. “Where you goin’?”

“I can’t let them get away.”

“They won’t! They’ll never make it to the other side.”

“I can’t take that chance.” Connor is wasting time, the Lieutenant is slowing him down. **_C_ _ **a** tch them Catch them Catch them >>_** He lifts himself back up–

“Hey!” The Lieutenant _drags_ him down this time, with far more force, and he keeps his hand tight on Connor’s bicep. “You will get yourself killed!”

Killed?

**_< < ANTI-ANDROID << throw the lot of you in a dumpster and set a match to it << get yourself killed <<_ **

Killed? Connor isn’t alive.

“Do NOT go after ‘em, Connor, that’s an order!”

Fear in the deviant’s eyes, fear in the Lieutenant’s voice.

**_> > Catch them Catch them Catch them << Software instability ^^_ **

Before Connor has registered that his hands are no longer on the mesh wires, no longer ready to brace himself to climb the fence, the deviants have crossed the highway and disappeared on the other side.

*******

The ChickenFeed has failed its last few hygiene examinations. The Lieutenant has told him that he eats there almost every day. Connor is more confused after having this information than he had been without it. He needs to ask better questions.

“Why didn’t you want me to cross the highway?”

The Lieutenant pauses with his mouth half around his burger. There is sauce on the collar of his shirt. Connor has begun noticing meaningless little details like that recently. He’d have to start regulating his external sensors more often.

“Cause you could’ve been killed!” From the Lieutenant’s tone, that answer should be obvious. It isn’t.

**_< < ANTI-ANDROID << throw the lot of you in a dumpster and set a match to it << get yourself killed <<_ **

It isn’t whatsoever.

“And I don’t like filling out paperwork for damaged equipment.” Well, that surely would have made more sense. But it wasn’t the Lieutenant’s initial answer, so Connor can only conclude that it is a failsafe response. A front of indifference, and a poor one at that. The Lieutenant also seems unable to meet Connor’s eyes.

He appears uncomfortable, so Connor deems it wise to change the subject. It won’t do to endanger the investigation any further by provoking the Lieutenant’s temper. He relays the contents of the ChickenFeed’s meal instead, and points out that it is a bad idea to continue eating. He decides not to mention the owner’s hygiene regulations again. Hank **_Software instability ^^_** The Lieutenant had made no sign of listening the first time anyway.

“Is there anything you’d like to know about me?” Connor is tentative to ask, given their previous interactions.

“Hell, no.” But the Lieutenant sounds amused. “Well, yeah… um, why do they make you look so goofy and give you that weird voice?”

Connor answers readily, encouraged. The question means that they are on level ground enough now for the Lieutenant to take a harmless interest in his design and functionality.

“Both my appearance and voice were specifically designed to facilitate my integration.”

The Lieutenant looks hard at him for a moment. “Well, they fucked up.”

**_Insult..........?? //_ **

**_NEGATIVE_ **

**_PROCESSING..........  
100%_ **

**_Teasing_ **

Connor searches, almost agitatedly, for more information.

**_PROCESSING..........  
100%_ **

**_To tease: to make fun of or attempt to provoke (a person or animal) in a playful or friendly way._ **

Friendly. The Lieutenant is expressing behaviours that can be categorised as friendly. An unexpected line of approach, but not unattainable.

So when the Lieutenant asks Connor for his opinion on him, he answers sincerely. “I think working with an officer with personal issues is an added challenge.” Teasing, Connor reminds himself: an attempt to provoke in a playful or friendly way. “But adapting to human unpredictability is one of my features.”

The wink, Hank **_Software instability ^^_**  tells him later on, while they’re driving to the address in Connor’s latest deviancy report, was _fucking weird_ and he never wants to see it happen again. The slight curl of his mouth and further amusement in his voice tells Connor otherwise.

*******

The feeling of clasping his hand around the Lieutenant’s is, in the most basic terms, nothing short of a relief. It shouldn’t be. Hank is an able man, middle aged and relatively fit despite his unhealthier habits.

**_LIFESTYLE  
Alcoholism. Unidyllic diet._ **

Connor has stored the information away, along with other unnecessary particulars he’s picked up about the Lieutenant.

But the matter still stands. Hank would have pulled himself back onto the roof. He would have used the ledge to support himself and gotten onto his feet with relative ease.

**_HANK SURVIVAL PROBABILITY: 89%_ **

He would not have fallen. Connor had helped him anyway.

**_Major software instability^^_ **

**_SENDING REPORT..........  
100%_ **

**_REPORT SENT_ **

The truth: “It’s my fault.” And a lie: “I should have been faster.” A complete lie this time. He had been fast enough. Connor knows his LED is yellow.

“You’d have caught it if it weren’t for me.”

And Connor knows without a doubt that he would have. They’d have the deviant in custody, ready to be questioned. He might have had answers about rA9, about all of this. Connor had helped Hank anyway.

“That’s all right.” Reassurance. Is that what the Lieutenant is trying to do? Reassure Connor over his failure? Hank couldn’t have known his own survival odds **_89% 89%_** He couldn’t have known the intrinsic, unyielding compulsions of Connor’s programming.

**_> > catch DEVIANTS >> accomplish the MISSION >>>_ **

Save Hank Anderson wasn’t wired into any of that. Connor had helped him anyway.

“Don’t go beatin’ yourself up about it,” Hank says as they reach the car and climb inside. “So you fucked up, so what? Welcome to all the rest of our lives.” Connor’s LED returns to blue after the Lieutenant places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

**_Relationship: LT. ANDERSON, HANK updating..........  
100%_ **

**_WARM_ **

****

**_Software instability ^^_ **

*******

Hank’s wardrobe is bizarre. Connor only possesses a basic interface when it comes to subjects like fashion, but even he can gather that Hank isn’t as stylishly up-to-date as most humans.

“What do you want to wear?”

“Whatever!..”

Connor slides the shirt off its hanger – his scanner identifies the general origin of the pattern as  _hippy._ Connor quite likes the colours.

He doesn’t like the sound of Hank retching. It sounds painful. **_Software instability ^^_**

“Are you all right, Lieutenant?”

“Yeah… wonderful…” Hank wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. His face is still slightly red from when Connor had woken him up. _Assaulted_ , Hank had said. Connor thinks that term is a little excessive. “Give me five minutes, okay?”

He leaves the clothes near the sink. “Sure.”

Connor should be frustrated that they are, once again, falling behind on this case due to the Lieutenant’s unresolved personal matters. Connor knows this. He is not frustrated. **_Software instability ^^_**

He takes advantage of the time to learn more about Hank.

Bed unmade but mattress firm; not firm enough to be new. **_HANK RARELY SLEEPS HERE._** Basketball rerun on TV ** _. HANK IS A DETROIT GEARS FAN._** Autumn Blues vinyl and some old pictures on the wall opposite the couch. **_HANK LOVES JAZZ_** _._ A bookshelf, overflowing. **_HANK KEEPS REAL BOOKS_**. Fridge barely stocked, takeout containers in the living room and kitchen. **_HANK LIKES TAKEOUT._** Dog toys strewn about, and a large bag of dog food costing **_$23.76_**. Sumo himself is fairly clean and has been recently brushed. **_HANK TAKES BETTER CARE OF HIS DOG THAN HIMSELF._** A gun on the floor, one bullet remaining. **_HANK HAS SUICIDAL TENDENCIES??_**

Connor doesn’t bother counting the number of empty bottles. Instead, he picks up the photograph on the kitchen table.

**_ANDERSON, COLE. Born 2029. Deceased 2035. Car accident._ **

Six years old.

**_VITAL INFORMATION updating..........  
100%_ **

**_HANK LOST HIS SON_ **

Connor has a sudden, overwhelming urge to distract himself from the data. He wants to return to petting Sumo in the living room, or take out his coin for some recalibrations, but he also finds the idea of moving difficult.

**_< < Six years old car accident << HANK IS A CAREFUL DRIVER HANK HAS SUICIDAL TENDENCIES?? HANK LOST HIS SON <<_**

When Hank emerges, long after his requested five minutes, Connor gives him a small and unpractised smile. He doesn’t know why. Hank doesn’t even smile back. But Connor has the impulse to do it anyway.

**_Major software instability ^^_ **

**_SENDING A REPORT..........  
100%_ **

**_REPORT SENT_ **

*******

“Think you can read the android’s memory? Maybe you could see what happened.”

 ** _< < ANTI-ANDROID ANTI-ANDROID <<  _**Connor shuts the recall off entirely. It was just becoming bothersome now.

He is impressed that the Lieutenant would directly ask him to try and link. Not many humans concern themselves with the knowledge that androids have the ability, despite it being present in all the information pamphlets. Though thinking back, Connor had mentioned the basic logistics of linking to Hank during one of their lunch breaks at the ChickenFeed. Connor finds himself oddly affected by the fact that Hank had remembered. **_Software instability ^^_**

“I can try,” Connor answers, in the middle of swiping two fingers through the android’s thirium.

“Whoa! Hey, hey, hey! Argh, Connor, you’re so disgusting.”

“Sorry, Lieutenant.”

**_PROCESSING.........._**

_**BLUE BLOOD** _  
_**MODEL WR400** _  
_**Serial number #429 671 942** _

Connor can’t read its memory. It’s too badly impaired. But he can reactivate it.

Its patron, they learn, had paid for two androids. He had broken the first, which was now shut down for good due to the extent of the damage. The other android is the murderer. It is unlikely that any human would have seen it leave…

“Excuse me, Lieutenant. Can you come here a second?”

Hank isn’t happy about renting the Traci. “For fuck sake, Connor, we got better things to do!”

“Please, Lieutenant! Just trust me.”

**_PROCESSING..........  
100%_ **

**_Trust: firm belief in the reality, truth, reliability, or ability in someone or something._ **

Hank does as he asks.

The Traci had seen something. A blue-haired model, identical to the deactivated WR-400. All they need to do is follow her trajectory before the androids’ memories are wiped.

**_\--00.02.59 remaining_ **

“Hey, what am I supposed to do with this one?”

“Tell it you changed your mind!” Connor is already heading to the far end of the welcoming foyer.

“Uhh… sorry, honey. Changed my mind! Nothing personal, you’re… a lovely girl… I just, uh… You know… I’m with him and… I mean, not with him like that… I’m not that… That’s not what I…”

**_< < ANTI-ANDROID ANTI-ANDROID ANTI-ANDROID <<_ **

Connor wants to point out that the android doesn’t care. It was not built to feel hurt or rejection. Whether Hank has changed his mind or not is of little concern to anything besides the club manager’s income. Hank’s attempts to spare its feelings – non-existent in the first place – are entirely unnecessary and entirely time-wasting.

 ** _< < ANTI-ANDROID << why don’t you be a good lil’ robot and get the fuck outta here << I don’t need a partner, especially not this plastic prick <<_**  ** _nothing personal, you’re… a lovely girl... <<_**

 _Why_ is Hank trying to spare its feelings? He has those campaign slogans on his desk for a reason. He had despised Connor on sight for a reason.

“Wait. I’ll take it from here.”

It is very much an order, when they reach the door to the Eden Club’s storage room. Connor steps aside and allows Hank to go first. **_< < _** ** _Stay behind me << Got it << _** Why did he keep insisting on going first? Hank must know that he is in far more danger than Connor. Connor isn’t alive.

“Christ, look at ‘em. They get used till they break, then they get tossed out.” Hank is inspecting one of the female androids, half taken apart on the table. “People are fucking insane… They don’t want relationships anymore, everybody just gets an android.” He looks as bitter as Connor has ever seen him. “They cook what you want, they screw when you want, you don’t have to worry about how they _feel_.”

**_Software instability ^^_ **

“Next thing you know, we’re gonna be extinct, because everybody would rather buy a piece of plastic than love another human being.”

**_Software instability ^^_ **

Connor has gained the upper hand in the scuffle. They are outside the storage room and Connor has his gun trained on the red-haired Traci. She’s rushing at him. Her movements are desperate, uncoordinated. He has a clear shot. A completely clear shot.

**_> > T_ _ake them down Take them down Take them down >> DEVIANTS << Take them down >> you don’t have to worry about how they feel << rather buy a piece of plastic than love another human being << Take them down <<<_**

Connor watches both Tracis, blue and red-haired, climb the fence and run away through the rain together.

**_Major software instability ^^_ **

**_SENDING A REPORT..........  
100%_ **

**_REPORT SENT_ **

Connor’s clothes are soaked through, and he’s scratched something on the back of his arm; probably from when he had tackled the red-haired Traci into the alleyway. He’d need a new jacket. He’d need to make a report to CyberLife as soon as possible.

Connor is still watching the deviants. Hank is watching him.

“It’s probably better this way.”

**_Software instability ^^_ **

*******

Hank is drunk. Beneath the bridge, he holds his gun to Connor’s head. “What are you, really?”

“I’m whatever you want me to be, Lieutenant. Your partner. Your buddy to drink with.”

**_PROCESSING..........  
100%_ **

**_Buddy: a close friend; someone with whom you become friendly and spend time with._ **

**_Software instability ^^_ **

“Or just a machine, designed to accomplish a task.”

Hank asks him if he’s afraid to die. Connor cannot die. He is not alive. “I would certainly find it… regrettable to be… interrupted. Before I can finish this investigation.”

Hank lowers the gun at his answer, and leaves.

An hour later, Connor takes a cab, for the second time that night, to Hank’s house. **_< < g_** ** _un one bullet remaining << HANK HAS SUICIDAL TENDENCIES? <<_**  The information recall won’t stop. The door is unlocked this time and Hank is sitting at the dining table. He hasn’t cleared up the shards of glass from where Connor had broken in through the window.

There is a glass of whisky in front of him. But there is no gun in sight this time.

“I’m sorry about the window, Lieutenant.” Connor can’t think of what else to say. “I really thought you’d been attacked… Of course, CyberLife will pay for the damage.”

Hank doesn’t raise his voice this time. He doesn’t tell Connor to piss off. Instead, he stands, a little unsteadily, and rounds the table. He gestures for Connor’s jacket.

Connor spends the rest of the night with Sumo’s head in his lap, the same rerun of the Detroit Gears on TV while the Lieutenant snores from the chair. Connor’s jacket is drying beside Hank’s coat on one of the heaters.

**_Relationship: LT. ANDERSON, HANK updating..........  
100%_ **

**_FRIEND_ **

*******

Connor has come to a conclusion.

Hank had made his view on androids very clear. No one could have mistaken where the Lieutenant stood on that particular subject. But as he and Connor had continued working together, Hank’s opinions seem to have drastically changed. And the conclusion Connor has come to is that he himself is responsible for it.

He is the only android Hank has been in close contact with, as far as he knew. He is therefore the only one who could have affected him so personally **_Software instability ^^_**   throughout that time. Connor must be responsible. There can be no other explanation.

The self-satisfied sense of accomplishment that comes with that knowledge, however, must be another instability in his software. After all, changing Hank’s mind was never part of his mission.

“Okay, I have a question. A _personal_ one.” Teasing. Connor has been victim to Hank’s teasing more and more often since their first trip to the ChickenFeed. “And since you seem to like askin’ me them so much, you gotta answer. Why in God’s name did they give you these?”

The tip of Hank’s finger pokes, fleetingly and surprisingly gently, at the freckle on his left cheek. Connor can’t feel pain, but he can feel _contact_. Warmth, to an extent.

“You’re going to have to be more specific, Lieutenant.”

Hank leans back in his chair, head tilted back to study Connor, who could have been sitting in his own chair, at his own desk. He prefers perching on the edge of Hank’s. **_Software instability ^^_**

“All right, Mr. Specific. What reason could CyberLife possibly have to give an android freckles? Goddamn _freckles_ , of all things. Weren’t you designed to sniff out deviants or whatever? I mean, what’s the point?”

The Lieutenant is as blunt as ever in his reasoning. Connor has always acknowledged Hank’s outspokenness, but he decides there and then to replace the word with _candour_. Hank is _candid_. Connor likes that description better. **_Software instability ^^_**

“As you know, my appearance was meant to aid my integration among humans. To make it easier for us to work together.” At Hank’s nod, he continues, “I presume they thought freckles would be a harmless addition. A nice touch.”

“A nice touch,” Hank scoffs. “You know what, I get it now. I fucking get it.”

Connor tilts his head, welcoming Hank’s conclusion.

“They made a cutesy android is what they did! Made you look all…” Hank gestures, slightly hysterically, at Connor’s form, “innocent and stupid, with your fucking freckles. They didn’t want you to intimidate suspects. Now don’t get me wrong, I saw you chase that deviant over the plantation, I know you’re like the terminator 2.0 or somethin’. But fucking-A! They gave you _freckles_ to appear less threatening. Jesus.”

It sounds like a rant, but Connor knows now when Hank is genuinely irritated, and when he is simply amused. Connor also makes a note to research _the terminator_ later on. He rarely understands Hank’s references without some additional enquiry, but he assumes on instinct that it’s a movie. Most of Hank’s references seem to come from movies.

“Do you have a problem with the freckles, Lieutenant?”

Hank is too busy chuckling to himself to answer. Connor’s question only seems to make him chuckle harder. Connor is glad. He likes the sound. **_Software instability ^^_**   It has become familiar to him.

“I can get rid of them, if you’d prefer.”

The laughter stops abruptly. Too abruptly. Connor’s external sensors go into overdrive. **_< < _** ** _Mouth slack eyes narrowed shoulders TENSED hands no longer relaxed posture STRAINED << rectify >> rectify rectify rectify >>>_**

“Have I said something wrong, Lieutena–”

“You can do that?” Hank’s question cuts across his own. The interruption is rude, Connor supposes, but he doesn’t mind. Hank also doesn’t _sound_ angry. Not as angry as he looks, at least. And he doesn’t seem angry at _Connor_ specifically. “You can just get rid of them, _poof_ , just like that?”

Connor tracks the motion of Hank’s fingers during the word _poof_. It is endearing **_Software instability ^^_**   how expressive his hands can be sometimes. “You must remember, Lieutenant, that my outward appearance is purely artificial. When activated, it resembles a human and masks my synthetic body beneath. CyberLife developed the facility as of 2020, after the public on the whole announced it wasn’t comfortable with our bare synthetic appearance in day to day life.”

Connor pauses for a moment while he looks down, examining himself.

“CyberLife gave me this design, and I have never found a sufficient reason to change it. I’m also not able to alter anything too substantial; facial-structure or body-type, for example. But certain features such as hair and eye colour, and _freckles_ ,” he says with emphasis, “can be changed if needs be.”

“Shit. They built you all with the, the… _ability_ to just change yourself like that? Just because someone else might not like the way you look?”

“Correct.” Connor feels himself frowning. Hank still doesn’t look satisfied with the answer. “It’s not so dissimilar from human’s changing their clothes or hairstyle, if that makes for an easier comparison.”

Hank doesn’t respond. He has that expression on his face; the same one he’d had in the Eden Club’s storage room, when he’d looked down at that broken sexbot and called it _used_.

“Lieutenant, if the freckles bother you, it’s really no trouble to–”

“ _No_ ,” Hank growls. There is defensiveness in his tone. Slight distress, too. Connor is getting better at picking apart the different tenors of Hank’s voice. **_Software instability ^^_**   “No, you ain’t changing shit, Connor, it’s your fucking body. All right? It’s _yours_.”

**_Major software instability ^^_ **

**_SENDING REPORT..........  
100%_ **

**_REPORT SENT_ **

“Forget I said anythin’. Let’s just get back to work.”

Connor sits at his own desk, wondering where, once again, he has gone wrong.

Over the course of that morning, the Lieutenant glances at his freckles approximately four point five times every half an hour.

**_VITAL INFORMATION updating..........  
100%_ **

**_HANK LIKES FRECKLES_ **

*******

The little cruise with Amanda is intended to be a respite. It is dusk, and the light is dim and orange, blending seamlessly with the cherry blossoms and the clear blue water. _Far from the noise of the world_.

None of it feels as calming as it should.

“You had your gun trained on those deviants at the Eden Club. Why didn’t you shoot?”

“We need the deviants intact for analysis. Shooting them wouldn’t have taught us anything.” It has become increasingly easy to lie to her. That is the most disconcerting thing of all.

“If your investigation doesn’t make progress soon…” Amanda always looked serious, solemn. But there is an edge to her expression this time. A sharp and cautionary edge. “I may have to replace you, Connor.”

A new Connor model would take his place. It would become Hank’s partner, and things would go on as they had been. Perhaps the investigation would move along faster, more efficiently. But the idea of it, the idea of _all_ of it, does not feel right. **_Software instability ^^_**

“I know I will succeed.” Confidence. He needs to have confidence. And he needs to stall for time. He would get himself back on track. He would become more focused on the mission. “All I need is time.”

Thunder rumbles from somewhere above the boat. Somewhere _outside_. Nothing had ever disturbed the peace of the garden before.

“Something’s happening. Something serious.” Amanda levels him with the same, cold stare. “Hurry, Connor. Time is running out.”

*******

The deviant – the one on the left, Connor had _known_ _it_ – flings itself at him. Grabs him by the lapels of his jacket and _shoves_ , backs him over the counter, and now it is grasping for his regulator. Connor hadn’t been prepared for such a direct attack.

His systems go into shock, red and static flashing in the edges of his vision, when his regulator is torn away and tossed onto the ground. It leaves a vibrant trail of blue blood, _Connor’s_ _blood_ , splattered over the floor. The deviant stabs a knife in the centre of Connor’s palm and pins him there.

**_VITAL SYSTEM DAM1GED  
MISSING: BIOC4MPONENT #8456W_ **

**_\--00:01:44  
TIME REMAINING BEFORE SHUTDOWN_ **

“Hank… _Hank_ …” His vocal unit sounds hoarse, cracked. Connor has experience damaged bio-components before, but he has never been _missing_ one. His movements are slow, uncoordinated.

He grasps for the knife blindly, ripping it upwards and out, and he collapses onto the ground. Drags himself forward on his hands and knees, crawling between the tables.

**_< < _ _deViant Loose << hEaded for maiN corRIdor << gET to HANK >>_ **

Keep moving.

**_\--00:00:50  
TIME REMAINING BEFORE SHUTDOWN_ **

Keep moving, keep moving.

**_> > _ _gEt tO HANK >> geT To HANK >>>_ **

As his regulator slots back into place, the red and the static filter away.

He reaches the corridor as the deviant comes to a halt outside the broadcast tower’s elevator.

“It’s a deviant! STOP IT!”

It tackles an FBI agent to the ground and takes his gun. There are over ten people in the hallway. Connor wants the deviant alive. Hank is to Connor’s left and directly in the line of fire.

**_HANK SURVIVAL PROBABILITY: 40%_ **

Connor grabs Officer Miller’s hand gun and fires three times.

The deviant is taken to the DPD as evidence. It would be stored along with Ortiz’s android, which had self-destructed in its cell the day after the interrogation.

Captain Fowler orders Hank, and by extension Connor, to take the rest of the afternoon off.

Hank hasn’t said a word to him since the broadcast tower. But when the door closes behind them and Connor has straightened up from greeting Sumo, Hank has taken him by the shoulders and is looking him over.

“Shit,” he breathes, eyes fixed on the blue stains on Connor’s shirt surrounding his regulator. “You gonna… I don’t know, be all right? We gotta check you over or somethin’, run some sort of… diagnostic… scan thingy?”

Diagnostic scan thingy. Why does that make Connor smile? **_Software instability ^^_**

Hank appears to relax at the sight of it, though.

“I’m all right, Lieutenant. Nothing was severely damaged.”

Hank still takes a few seconds to finish checking him over. “Suppose you know best, right?” A smile. Teasing. “Go change your shirt at least, I don’t need you gettin’ fucking stains all over my couch. You know where the clothes are.”

In the bedroom, Connor takes Hank’s DPD hoodie from the bedside drawer, and leaves his shirt and jacket in the laundry hamper.

“You’re a fucking idiot, going off to interrogate those androids alone.” Hank has shrugged off his own coat, discarded it over one of the dining room chairs. He is rummaging around in the fridge. “I was still up on the goddamn roof, I didn’t even realise you’d left! I only came downstairs to ask Chris where the crikey-fuck you’d gone, and next thing I know, you’re shootin’ that deviant in the goddamn head.”

Hank pops the lid from the beer bottle. The condensation is making its way onto the sides of his fingers. Connor watches a drop of it fall to the floor.

“You saved all our asses today, Connor, you know that?” Hank scratches Sumo’s ear when the Saint Bernard nudges past his thigh. “All that was missing was fuckin’ Reed. Man, to have seen the look on that bastard’s face if he was there today. Guy might even have changed his mind about you.”

Connor is certain that last part is a joke. But it gets him thinking.

“Detective Reed’s opinions are of little importance to me."

Hank snorts into his beer at that. "Yeah, that sounds about right. Reed's opinions are important to Reed and his fuckin' mother. No other soul in the city gives a shit."

“However, I believe..." _**Software instability^^** _ "I believe I have come to consider _your_ opinion to be important.”

Hank snorts again. This sound is far more forced than the last. “Is that right.”

“Can I ask you a personal question, Lieutenant?”

“Haven’t I told you to _quit asking_ every time you wanna ask me a personal fucking question?” But Hank tips his beer bottle forward slightly, giving his permission.

“Your view on androids. It has… changed since we first met in Jimmy’s bar.” Connor is a little concerned that his interface can’t seem to summon a more sophisticated word than _changed_. “I was wondering if it's because of me.”

He's met with silence and Hank’s familiar, exasperated expression for longer than would be considered strictly comfortable.

“Is that a serious fucking question?”

Connor blinks. “Yes.”

He watches as Hank buries a hand in his hair and heaves the most frustrated sigh Connor has ever heard from him. “You dumb, fucking android– I had to get saddled with the dumbest fuckin’ android on the planet, didn’t I. Connor, you’re such an asshole.” Hank sighs again at whatever he must see on Connor’s face. “Yes, you moron, it’s because of you. You think I hang around with other androids, huh? You’re as dumb as you fuckin’ look.”

So Connor’s earlier hypothesis was accurate. There is no software instability on that front, at least.

Good. That makes Connor feel _good_. **_Software instability ^^_**

**_Deleting VITAL INFORMATION..........  
100%_ **

**_~~ANTI-ANDROID~~ _ **

*******

“Nice girl.”

“You're right...” Connor is inspecting Elijah Kamski’s photo. Too large. Ostentatious. Though supposedly stereotypical of a multi-billionaire CEO. “She’s really pretty.”

At Hank’s answering silence, Connor peers at him over his shoulder.

“Pretty, huh?” Hank speaks up the second Connor meets his gaze, as though responding somehow is the socially expected thing to do. Connor does not know Hank for doing what is socially expected. “Got a crush there, Connor?”

**_PROCESSING..........  
100%_ **

_**Crush: to deform, pulverise, or force inwards by compressing..........?? //** _

**_NEGATIVE_ **

That isn’t right at all. Connor searches again.

**_PROCESSING..........  
100%_ **

**_Crush: a desire to be with someone you find attractive and extremely special._ **

The truth: “On the android? No.” And a lie: “I do not have a crush, Lieutenant.” **_Software instability ^^_**

Kamski’s swimming pool is red. The deep, avid colour contrasts with the minimalist arrangement of the room, and with the white and frozen landscape outside the window. Connor can see the CyberLife tower in the distance, hazy but just visible through the snowfall. He hasn’t gone to report there in person for a long time.

Kamski rises from the pool, and the android that had greeted them at the door holds out his robe while he slips into it. Connor glances at Hank, sees his quiet distaste. Connor agrees. Kamski is a grown man; he could have easily dressed himself.

**_VITAL INFORMATION updating..........  
100%_ **

**_HANK DISLIKES ABUSE OF POWER_ **

“What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

Kamski is frustratingly vague in his answers, even more cryptic than Ortiz’s android had been. When he comes to stand before Connor, something inquisitive and dangerously knowing in his eyes, Connor finds it difficult to respond to his questions.

“What do you really want, Connor?”

The image of Sumo’s head in his lap and Hank asleep in his chair flits through Connor’s internal processors. **_Software instability ^^_**   “What I want is not important.”

When Kamski presses the gun into his hand and positions his fingers around the trigger, Connor’s LED begins to flash in a frenzy. Panic? **_Software instability ^^_**

Kamski circles him. Connor is reminded of a nature documentary he had watched last week while Hank was reading. On the television screen, a shark had circled something bleeding and vulnerable in the water.

“Decide who you are. An obedient machine. Or a living being, endowed with free will.”

“That’s enough!” **_< < _** ** _Hank << Hank tell me what to do <<_**  “Connor, we’re leaving.”

“Pull the trigger–”

“Connor! Don’t!” **_> > _** ** _shoot >> don’t shoot >> please tell me what to do <<_**

“–and I’ll tell you want you want to know.”

**_> > _ _shoot >> shoot >> SHOOT >> accomplish the MISSION >> SHOOT >> SHOOT >> that’s enough Connor don’t !! << DON’T SHOOT >> DON’T SHOOT >> DON’T SHOOT >>>_ **

“Fascinating.”

**_Major software instability ^^_ **

**_SENDING REPORT..........  
100%_ **

**_REPORT SENT_ **

Kamski takes the gun from his hand. Connor’s palm suddenly feels empty without it. Defenceless.

“CyberLife’s last chance to save humanity… is itself a deviant.”

**_< < _ _deviant << deviant <<_ **

Connor is grateful for Hank’s hand on his shoulder, guiding him from the room. It stays there, a solid and grounding pressure against him, until Connor pushes open the door and marches out into the snow.

**_< < _ _deviant << deviant << is itself a DEVIANT <<<_**

“Maybe you did the right thing.”

Hank’s warm smile is enough to calm him. But Connor’s hands remain clenched in his lap – shaking, when had they started shaking? – for the entire journey back to central Detroit. He keeps his gaze on the window, keeps his head tilted enough to obscure his yellow LED from sight.

Apparently, it didn’t work. “Hey. Connor, look at me, damnit.”

They have stopped at a set of traffic lights. Connor doesn’t know what he sees on the Lieutenant’s face when he looks. Not annoyance. Not pity. Sympathy, maybe? Concern?

“Quit freakin’ out over there, it’s gonna be okay. All right? We’ll work it out.”

When Connor doesn’t respond, Hank places a hand over his wrist and squeezes.

“It’s all gonna be fine.”

 ** _Software instability ^^_**   Connor manages a nod.

Hank’s hand stays where it is until they reach the precinct. By then, Connor’s LED is blue once more.

*******

“You’re off the case. The FBI is taking over.”

 _Ironic_ , Connor thinks. _This is ironic_. It was the outcome both he and Hank had hoped for the first time Captain Fowler called them to his office.

Hank seems anything but pleased now.

“Fuck that! You can’t just pull the plug now, not when we’re so close!”

“You’re always saying you can’t stand androids!” Fowler looks more exasperated by the minute, and he gestures to Connor as though he is a box of chocolates with only the liquorice flavours left. Connor had seen that exact scenario play out at the precinct once – everyone had seemed quite put out by it, though Connor still couldn’t understand why – and he has come to rather enjoy using the analogy. “Jesus, Hank, make up your mind! I thought you’d be happy about this!”

“We’re about to crack the case! I know we can solve it!”

Connor looks at Hank. _Really_ looks at him. Without using the advantage of his scanners, his processors, any of his interfaces, he _looks_. And what he sees is so different from the man in Jimmy’s bar all those weeks ago. That man had been world-weary, self-hating, unmotivated, and so, so stubborn. Now Hank stands straighter, taller. _I’m responsible for this,_ Connor thinks. _This is because of me._ There is a shine to his eyes that Connor has seen gradually returning day by day, beginning to resemble the expression in the photograph of his DPD profile. Connor can hear it in his voice, too; the passion, the _drive_ to keep hunting, to keep the case going until the end. The stubbornness, of course, is still there, and that likely wasn’t going anywhere else. Connor is glad. **_Software instability ^^_**

“There’s nothing I can do. You’re back on homicide.” Fowler sounds sympathetic, at least. Even more so when he motions to Connor, “And the android returns to CyberLife.”

Connor studies Hank’s expression before he storms out of the office.

**_PROCESSING..........  
100%_ **

**_Anguish: severe (mental or physical) pain or suffering; to be extremely unhappy about something._ **

When he joins Hank at their desks – _their desks_ **_Software instability ^^_**   Connor keeps his voice as gentle as possible. “I’m not programmed to say things like this, but I really appreciated working with you. I know we got off on the wrong foot–” Hank smirks at that, and Connor feels himself smile in return. “I’m glad that you changed your mind about me.”

“You know, I haven’t changed my mind about somethin’ for a long time, before you came along. Walking in there with your fuckin’ tie and shiny shoes. And I still think you’re an asshole,” Hank adds. “Nothing’s changed there.” A lie. “But you’re a damn fine partner. And…” Something softens painfully in his expression; something sad and regretful and _longing_. “I’m gonna miss you, Connor.” The truth.

**_PROCESSING..........  
100%_ **

**_To miss: to regret the absence or loss of something or someone._**

“I’m going to miss you, too, Lieutenant.”

Connor almost resigns himself to the fact that this is their last time together. This, in the middle of the DPD. Not at home **_Software instability ^^_** with Sumo slumped across Hank’s lap, his head in Connor’s while he plays with the Saint Bernard’s ears. No Detroit Gears in the background, or an old vinyl playing while Hank reads one of his books. No more of that strange, _warm_ sensation Connor has each time Hank accidentally makes two cups of coffee, forgetting that one of them isn’t going to drink it. No more of Hank’s laugh. Connor likes hearing it, even when he’s laughing at something Connor has said. _Especially_ when he’s laughing at something Connor has said.

Connor almost resigns himself to this being the _end_. And then Agent Perkins walks through the doors.

“Five minutes, that’s all I ask.”

Hank begins to smile.

**_Software instability ^^_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was pretty drunk when I wrote this (Hank would be proud) so be kind I guess?? I thought it turned out all right.
> 
> There will probably be more (maybe from Hank’s perspective??) but I’ll need a drink first. *pops cap off a bottle* Awesome.
> 
>  [tumblr.](https://imogengotdrunk.tumblr.com/)


	2. Don't let me down and become human yourself (We would lose such a wonderful machine)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Ian Fleming, Casino Royale

The first thought that worms its way into Hank’s mind, sluggish and shameless in the midst of his drunken haze, is that he wants to reach up and tug that pretty lock of hair dangling over the android’s forehead. It looks ridiculous. It looks _tempting_.

The second thought, as he watches the plastic prick slosh his whisky – _expensive_ whisky, Hank might add – all over Jimmy’s floor, is that he wants to get up in its dumb fucking face and curse at it until it stops sassing him. _Sassing_ him.

“I think we can go now."

Hank hadn’t known that an android could _sass_ , but there it fucking was.

He slogs out of the bar, curses again when he hears the prim little _clack-clack_ of the android’s shoes following him onto the pavement. The rain plasters that fucking lock of hair to its skin and Hank wants to cut it off.

***

The stench at the crime scene is enough to make Ben hurry back outside, and enough to make Hank wish to God that he could join him.

“Five minutes, Lieutenant. That’s all I ask.”

Hank’s sobered up by now – a skill he’s perfected over the years when the situation calls for it – and the android’s voice is beginning to grate on his nerves. Not that the hunk of plastic has said much between here and the bar. But its voice is so… mechanical. Robotic. Fitting terms, Hank supposes, given the circumstances.

When Hank checks on it, it’s licking blood off of its fingers. What. The. _Fuck_.

“I’m analysing the blood. I can check samples in real time.” Brown eyes. Dark and discerning and guileless. “I’m sorry, I should have warned you.”

Hank isn’t drunk enough for this. _Him_ , of all people, getting saddled with this bullshit. He’d be giving Fowler one hell of a what-for the next time he saw him. Jeffery knew how he felt about androids, what the fuck was the man trying to do to him?

The next time Hank checks on it, it’s managed to piece together the entire fucking crime scene.

 _Whoop-de-fucking-doo_ , Hank wishes he could say; wishes he could brush it under the carpet and stroll on outside, back to his car and then back to Jimmy’s where he’ll never have to think about any of this ever again. But the fact that they’ve only been there for fifteen minutes and the fucking android has already found every shred of evidence there is undeniably, infuriatingly impressive, and Hank can barely hold himself back from admitting it aloud. _Specialised fuckin’ model_ , he reminds himself.

“Okay, so your theory’s not totally ridiculous.” It’s the best that he can do, and it sounds indifferent enough to his own ears. “But it doesn’t tell us where the android went.”

Connor disappears on a 'thirium' trail that only he can see. Hank has noticed that the damn android can’t seem to stay still for a minute at a time. It has – and Hank can’t even believe he’s saying it, it sounds so fucking ridiculous – a nervous tic. Hank can see it in the way its hands move, the way it keeps shifting restlessly about, turning this way and that until watching it begins to make Hank feel giddy. He doesn’t know whether it’s the movement itself, or the fact that the android looks so fucking _human_ while it does it, that’s at the root of the giddiness, but Hank doesn’t dare give himself time to dwell on it.

He feels weak for caving in after only a few moments, and he follows the android into the kitchen to see what it’s up to now.

“Hey! Hey! Hey! What are you doin’ with that chair?”

“I’m going to check something.”

That _something_ turns out to be their fucking murder suspect, hidden for nineteen days in the attic. Nineteen. Days. Ortiz has been lying there, rotting and full of puncture holes, and no one thought to check the goddamn attic. They’d thought the suspect had escaped through the back door. _‘This type of soil would have retained a trace. Nobody’s been out here for a long time.’_ Connor has solved nineteen days’ worth of scrounging around this shit-pile crime scene in under half an hour.

“Specialised fuckin’ model,” Hank repeats under his breath, as he tails Ben and Chris’ car to the DPD. Beside him, Connor’s started tapping his fingers against his thigh in time to the music.

***

“I could try questioning it.”

It’s Reed’s answering bark of laughter that makes Hank say it. “What do we have to lose?” And it’s the speed at which the smug expression drops from his face that makes Hank add, “Go ahead, suspect’s all yours.”

Turns out it’s the best fucking decision he’s made in a while.

Watching Connor grill into Ortiz’s android is, and Hank hates himself for thinking it, a work of fucking art. He enters the room, flicks through the evidence Hank had left on the interrogation table, and then takes a seat. All of which is pretty standard as far as Hank’s concerned.

But then Connor starts to _talk_. He mentions the cigarette burns on the android’s left arm, slides the photos of Ortiz, pale and blood-stained, across the table, calmly threatens to probe its memory if it doesn’t cooperate. He’s coercing it, Hank realises. Slowly and carefully, he’s pressuring it to confess. _Convincing_ it to trust him.

“They’re going to disassemble you to look for problems in your bio-components.”

“I… I don’t wanna die.”

“Then talk to me.”

It does. And when there’s nothing more to tell, and Connor rises from his chair and announces that he’s done, Hank is at a loss for fucking words.

The shitshow comes afterwards, when Chris tries to move the deviant out of the room. Reed’s being a fucking prick as usual, and Chris is trying to be as gentle as he can but Hank can see he’s getting frustrated. The android’s made of stronger stuff than flesh and bone, and it doesn’t seem to be budging worth an inch. It looks scared out of its fucking mind.

“It’ll self-destruct if it feels threatened,” Connor warns them. He sounds cold, factual. Unconcerned. Hank isn’t surprised.

It’s the sight of Connor physically wrenching Chris away from it a few seconds later, standing defensively between him and the android – the gesture full of plain and simple _compassion_ – that surprises Hank.

“I can’t let you do that!” Connor is _protecting_ it. “Leave it alone, now!”

Hank pulls his gun on Reed when he threatens to shoot. Connor looks far, far too human in that moment, and Hank suddenly can’t stomach the possibility of his blood splattered around the interrogation room just because Reed has a happy trigger finger and a lifetime of hang-ups to go along with it.

Reed leaves. Chris escorts the android away. Hank has to ask. “You all right?”

Connor frowns. “I’m perfectly fine, Lieutenant. You pulled your gun on a fellow officer. You realise that you will likely receive a disciplinary warning for your actions towards Detective Reed.”

As quickly as it was built, the illusion shatters along with Hank’s ability to be sober for another second.

“Yeah, well, you’re fuckin’ welcome. Plastic piece of shit.” Hank leaves him – _it_ – in the interrogation room, feeling seven hells of stupid and not nearly drunk enough. He’ll start with another bottle of whiskey. That might be enough to put this shitstorm of a night far behind him.

And tomorrow, he’ll be hearing Fowler’s word on the matter. _You’re right, Hank_ , that authoritarian fuckwad will tell him. _You’re not right for this case_. _You’re reassigned._

 _You’re damn right I’m reassigned_ , Hank will answer, and that will be that.

***

Hank barges out of the office and makes a B-line for his desk. Unbelievable. Un- _fucking_ -believable.

 _‘Hank, you are seriously starting to piss me off!’_   Feeling’s mutual, old friend. And Fowler was his oldest friend, but right now Hank could strangle him. _Would_ strangle him, if he could risk any more disciplinaries in his folder. _‘It already looks like a fucking novel!’_   Fowler was always one to exaggerate when it suited him. Fucking prick.

So Hank was stuck on the deviancy case. And by extension, stuck with that monotone plastic shit-heap as his partner. Partner his ass. Hank would rather work with fucking Reed. At least Reed was _human_ , by social definition anyway – Hank was still convinced that the man was part rodent.

Connor takes to the twin desk and tries to make _small talk_ of all things. Hank doesn’t like small talk on a good day, and _this_ is not a good fucking day. He ignores every word.

Until–

“I like dogs.”

 _I like dogs._ Fucking-A.

“What’s your dog’s name?”

“What’s it to you?” It’s a sure-fire sign that Hank wants the conversation to end, and low and behold, the android takes the fucking hint. It trains its gaze back on its monitor, and though there isn’t much in the way of expression – there never is with androids – Hank could swear it looks…

Disappointed? Rejected? Shit.

Now Hank knows, knows with every aching, tired fibre of his body, that the android is not _feeling_ anything. It is not disappointed. It is not rejected. But it _looks_ like a fucking kicked puppy, and Hank’s dogged resolve to ignore the damn thing cracks without warning.

“Sumo. I call him Sumo.”

He forgives himself for the momentary lapse after he pins Connor against the terminal and threatens to set him on fire. _‘I didn’t come here to wait until you feel like working.’_   That wasn’t sass, not this time. That was cold, callous, _machine-like_ logic, and Hank makes damn sure to shoot a final scowl towards Fowler’s office as he leaves. This is _his_ fault. _His_ fault that Hank has to put up with this damn android and his fucking _mission_.

The _clack-clack_ of the android’s shoes follows him to his car. Hank has never hated a sound more.

***

The deviant had a kid with it. A fucking _kid_ , and it was lifting her over the barrier and onto the thoroughfare. It’s early morning, it's rush-hour, and the cars are speeding by in a blur. The deviant has the kid’s hand clasped in its own and gets ready to run, and Hank cannot watch a kid die on that fucking road.

Beside Connor at the fence, it’s all he can do to look away and try to pretend that this isn’t about to happen.

But then they make it to the safe strip of land in the centre of the highway. The deviant is shielding the kid with an ironclad determination.

Hank moves on instinct when Connor springs up to climb the fence. “Hey! Where you goin’?”

“I can’t let them get away!”

“They won’t.” But Hank can’t shake the hope that they _might_. “They’ll never made it to the other side.”

“I can’t take that chance!”

He lunges this time, takes Connor by the arm and drags him back down, heart in his throat. “Hey, you will get yourself killed! Do NOT go after ‘em, Connor, that’s an order.” _Let them go. Stay here and just let them fucking go._

The last thing Hank needs is to see three people lying in pieces on that road. Blue or red blooded, it suddenly doesn’t matter to him, suddenly doesn’t make a difference.

Connor’s whole body twitches with the desire to ignore, pursue, _chase_.

But he stays where he is, watching their suspects go with something that looks like frustration. The deviant and the kid cross over safely. Hank finally remembers to breathe again.

***

“This Pedro…”

It’s Connor’s third question in only so many minutes. Exactly when his lunch break had turned into an interrogation, Hank had no fucking clue. But Connor, it seems, is not to be deterred by Hank’s purposely back-handed answers and irritable tone.

A stubborn android. CyberLife had created a stubborn. Fucking. Android.

Hank tries to focus on his burger. _‘Your meal contains one point four times the recommended daily intake of calories. You shouldn’t eat that.’_   He takes a large bite out of it, just because he feels the need to make some sort of stand. Still, Connor soldiers on.

“Is there anything you’d like to know about me?”

“Hell, no.” But Connor’s tone is so guileless – shit, Hank would go as far as to say _hopeful_ – that he feels that wall of resolve cracking dangerously once again. “Well, yeah, um… why did they make you look so goofy and give you that weird voice?”

Connor, as he’d expected, does not acknowledge the insult for what it is. Hank has to fight a smile at his answer, recited like the fucking script of a cheesy TV commercial. _‘Both my appearance and voice were specifically designed to facilitate my integration.’_   Jesus.

“Well, they fucked up.” And they’d fucked up _hard_. Hank remembers hearing about the first android to pass the Turing Test, over a decade ago now. Remembers the interview on the news, the way he almost couldn’t believe that the girl was a fucking robot, she had looked and sounded so seamlessly human.

CyberLife, Hank can’t help but think, had backtracked when they’d released Connor into the world. Hank had watched him lick blood off of his fingers, for chrissake. Connor, stiff and logic-driven and just plain _robotic_ , would not in a million fucking years pass the Turing Test.

But then Connor _winks_. And Hank feels his world-view shift just a little. Shift to _where_ , he doesn’t know. It’s like having an itch somewhere on his body, but he can’t pinpoint the source well enough to start scratching. _‘Adapting to human unpredictability is one of my features.’_ What the ever-merciful fuck is Hank supposed to do with that?

Connor receives a report, and it’s the sight of his flashing LED that keeps Hank grounded. _This is an android_ , it tells him. _This is a machine._

“I’ll let you finish your meal. I’ll be in the car if you need me.” Connor walks away from the table, steps self-assured and perfectly in sync with one another. There’s the barest sway in his hips that Hank thinks should not be there _at all_. What purpose could CyberLife possibly have had in mind to have added _that_.

For obstinacy’s sake, Hank waits some minutes before heading to the car himself. His burger is left half-eaten and his soda half-drank on the table. It can’t hurt to check out this suspected deviant, he tells himself as he shucks into the driver’s seat beside Connor. After all, Fowler gave his orders very clearly, and Hank really can’t risk another disciplinary so soon after the last.

***

This is what Hank gets for deciding to do his job. Pushed off of a fucking roof. He’d always thought it would be alcohol poisoning that finally got him. This is a little more proactive, he supposes dryly, as he attempts to clamber back onto the ledge.

Rupert, that little android _shit,_ bolted the second Hank had tumbled over the side. Hank hopes that Connor tackles the fucker and breaks something. Preferably his neck, so Hank won’t have to spend the energy doing it himself.

He’s overreacting, he knows. He has a good grip on the rooftop’s bracket, and despite what a majority of the precinct probably thinks, he hasn’t let himself go as much as the alcohol and burgers would have them believe. Hank can pull himself back up.

He doesn’t have to. Connor’s hand is there, a sudden and strong pressure anchoring him back to the safety of solid ground.

Rupert’s long gone. Connor would have caught him, and Hank isn’t stupid enough to believe otherwise. He saw the way Connor had charged across the plantations, between the rooftops, on top of a fucking _train;_ focused and sprinting towards one, singular goal.

“What are you waiting for, chase it!”

And _fuck_ , had he chased it. Hank had never seen anything like it outside of a fucking TV screen before. He’d barely been able to keep up. Maybe he shouldn’t have even tried. Connor would have caught Rupert there and then, had it not been for him.

Hank admits that much out loud when he can’t stomach the expression on Connor’s face anymore. Confusion. Defeat. Connor doesn’t know why he’d helped Hank, that much is blatantly obvious. But he _had_ helped, and Hank is not concerned with the rhyme or the reason, all that matters is that he _had_.

“Hey, Connor…”

Connor is staring out over the roofs, as though tracking for some sign of Rupert, hoping to catch a glimpse and carry on the chase. His movements are stiff and mechanical as he turns around, and his LED is yellow. _This is a machine_ , it reminds Hank again with each calculating flash. _Just a machine._

“Nothin’.”

But Hank swears that Connor is sulking – fucking  _sulking_ – when they reach the streets and climb into the car. It’s the least he can do to give his shoulder a quick squeeze; he did save his ass, after all. Connor’s LED returns to being blue at the contact.

 _A machine_ , Hank has to repeat to himself. _Just a machine._

***

They work on the deviancy cases, together, throughout the next few weeks. Hank, though he’s reluctant to admit it, finds that it isn’t as unpleasant as he thought it would be.

Connor’s still a royal pain in his ass, of course. He never sits still for more than a few minutes, and even then, he’s fidgety. It’s an absurd notion, _a fidgety android_ , and if Hank didn’t see with his own eyes on a day-to-day basis, he wouldn’t believe it. When Connor isn’t bouncing his knee or fiddling with that damn coin, he’s pacing in circles until Hank feels a headache coming on and yanks him down to perch on the edge of the desk, just to make him _stop_ for a minute.

There are other things, too. Hank has a list. Besides being fidgety, Connor barely blinks. And he’s too upfront, too honest about everything to the point of being rude. He’s pedantic, and straight-laced, and he takes things way too literally, and he never, ever does what he’s fucking told.

But he’s also _funny_. Genuinely, stomach-achingly funny, and Hank is pretty certain that he doesn’t even mean to be. He’s also curious, too curious for his own good sometimes, and dangerously intelligent, and so, _so_ enthusiastic when something particularly catches his attention. He gets this look on his face when he’s pieced something together, found the answer they’ve been scrounging after for hours, and it’s this _eureka_ moment of silence before he’s darting up from his chair and rounding the desk to share it with Hank.

It’s irritating, and so goddamn charming that Hank’s starting to have six coffees a day instead of his usual four just to find an excuse to head to the break room and be _away_ from it all for a while.

On Saturday – and Hank has always hated Saturdays, because Saturdays mean that Sunday is coming. And Sunday means no DPD, no work, nothing to distract him from the long list of bad habits that have gradually become his life – On Saturday, Connor doesn’t arrive until the afternoon.

“What, and you get to bust my balls for arriving gone fuckin' noon every day?” Hank says in greeting, when Connor finally appears in the office. “Where the fuck have you been?”

“CyberLife. I was making a report.”

“Oh,” Hank grunts as Connor settles into his spot, perched on the corner of his desk. “Can’t you just do that by closin’ your eyes? Like in the elevator that one time?”

“I can,” Connor agrees, and it’s that tone of voice he uses just before he’s about to launch into a longwinded explanation that Hank probably won’t grasp half of. “But it’s also vital that I report back in person every now and again, in order to be checked over. CyberLife must run diagnostics to make sure I’m performing at optimal capacity, and make repairs to anything that may have been damaged in the field. Should anything be damaged, it is also recommended that I replenish thirium as soon as possible, and–”

“Whoa, whoa, hold up a second.” Connor closes his mouth and waits for Hank’s imminent question. It’s become something of a routine for them by now. “Replenish thirium? You mean your blue blood stuff?”

“Correct.” Connor catches onto Hank’s expectant silence after a few seconds, and explains, “If we suffer any damage that results in either minor or major loss of thirium, it does need to be replenished. And although it doesn’t happen often, it is possible for thirium to become contaminated if our bio-components are exposed to a volatile substance. Certain models of android are more vulnerable than others, and although I have never experienced any severe maintenance issues, I’d rather not take any chances.”

Hank scrubs a hand over his face. It feels about time for his third coffee. “In English, Connor, we’ve talked about this.”

He watches the cogs turn in Connor’s head, LED spiralling yellow, yellow, and then blue when he finds a suitable answer. “Think of it like human blood. When Humans become injured and lose too much blood, they must replenish it. Thirium works in a similar way.”

“And thirium is what powers your whatevers, your… your _bio-components_ , is that right.”

“Yes. Without enough thirium, our bio-components would stop working, and eventually shut down altogether.” That appears to be the end of the discussion. Connor blinks once, twice, before getting to his feet. “Coffee, Lieutenant?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just waltzes off to the break room with Hank’s mug in hand and that fucking lock of hair bouncing against his forehead. Hank still wants to cut it off.

He thinks about all of this later on at home, after he’s fed Sumo and ordered his usual from the Chinese takeout a few blocks away. He thinks about the differences – _similarities_ \- between humans and androids, and he thinks about CyberLife and Connor and his bio-components and his _thirium_ and that fucking lock of hair, and Hank finds himself getting drunk a lot quicker than he would have on a regular Saturday night.

When he reaches over the table for his fourth glass of whiskey and knocks over Cole’s picture frame, he starts to drink straight from the bottle. He barely remembers how he came to fumbling around in the drawer for his gun, for the bullets. He doesn’t remember how he came to fall off his chair and pass out cold.

***

There could not have been a worse fucking night for Hank to come to the Eden Club. After all of his thinking on androids that evening, before his face had hit the floor and Connor’s hand had hit his face, this is the last place in the world that Hank should be.

Half-naked men and women, covered in glitter and enclosed behind glass cases like fucking dolls for show. Like objects. Like _playthings_.

Hank keeps unconsciously glancing back at Connor as they enter, just to make sure he’s _all right_. These are androids after all, and if it feels this dirty for Hank to be here, then he can’t imagine what it must be like for Connor, seeing them all lined up like–

Hank cuts that thought off immediately. _Connor does not fucking care_ , he reminds himself. And Hank, like the foolish, lonely old man that he is, has to stop trying to look for evidence telling him otherwise. The state he’d drunk himself into back at home should be enough to drill that into his thick, fucking skull. _Connor does not empathise, Connor does not care. Connor is a goddamn machine._

 _They’re all machines_ , Hank tries to add, but he can’t quite seem convince himself of that much, especially when the Traci that Connor made him pay for starts to lead him towards one of the rooms.

“Uhh… sorry, honey. Changed my mind! Nothing personal, you’re… a lovely girl… I just, uh… You know… I’m with him and…” _Smooth_ , a taunting, shitty little voice says in the back of his head. “I mean, not with him like that… I’m not that… That’s not what I…” Hank used to be smooth. He used to have charm in buckets and fucking spades, but quite clearly that has dried-up along with his thirst for anything other than coffee and booze.

He distracts himself from his pitiful attempt at a recovery by aiding Connor wherever he can on this mystery trail. Connor rushes from room to room, following the blue-haired deviant, and he eventually makes his way through the staff only door and down into the club’s storage room.

Hank must still be slightly drunk. Looking around at these used, broken, _discarded_ androids makes his mouth run before he can think better of it. Before he can remember exactly who – _what_ – his companion is.

“People are fucking insane… They don’t want relationships anymore, everybody just gets an android. They cook what you want, they screw when you want, you don’t have to worry about how they _feel_. Next thing you know, we’re gonna be extinct, because everybody would rather buy a piece of plastic than love another human being.”

 _Hello pot, meet kettle._ The shitty voice returns, and its taunting makes Hank want to crawl right back to his kitchen and curl around the whiskey bottle he knows is still lying on the floor there. _You’ve always liked brown eyes, old man. So what if they belong to an android this time?_

It’s hilariously, agonisingly ironic what happens next. They find the blue-haired Traci, they find her lover, and they both escape through the rain and run towards their happily ever fucking after. Because Connor had let them go.

Hank had watched him fight them both tooth and claw, tear them away from the fence, raise his gun point-blank at their heads, and then he had let them go.

Because he had seen them holding hands. Because they had said they were _in love_.

Hank would mock, call Connor a sentimental bastard for letting them get away. But Hank knows he would have let them go too. Anyone with _humanity_ would have let them go.

But Connor isn’t human. So _why_ …

Hank needs another drink.

***

He drives to the bridge, picks up the cheapest six pack of beers he can on the way and drinks them on a park bench. Connor comes with him, simply because Hank doesn’t know where else to send him. Where does he go when he’s not at the DPD? When he’s not following Hank around like a fucking poodle? To CyberLife, Hank supposes, and he takes a burning swig at the thought of that tall, _empty_ looking building.

Connor stays behind in the car for a while. Then Hank hears his footsteps in the snow. _Fucking poodle._ The drink makes the comparison all the funnier, and Hank chuckles to himself. It’s a bitter sound, and a bitter taste when he takes another swig.

“You seem preoccupied, Lieutenant.”

For a second, Hank is afraid that Connor knows what he’s thinking; knows every tiny and dirty human thought racing through in his head. Afraid that maybe CyberLife has actually developed the technology to read minds now, and every broken piece of Hank is bared to this shit-faced, conceited, artless, _gorgeous_ android standing in front of him.

But it’s just the drink making him paranoid, heightening his anxieties as it always does. Connor starts talking about the case again. Hank pulls out his gun.

“Are you afraid to die, Connor?” He needs to know. Stripped down to its barest instincts, humanity is afraid of one thing, and that’s death. In that moment, as drunk as he is and as lost as he feels, Hank _needs_ _to know_.

“I would certainly find it… regrettable to be… interrupted. Before I can finish this investigation.”

Hank’s hand is shaking. Connor is _afraid_. Connor is _alive_.

He leaves the park, and Connor behind in it. He doesn’t know what else to do.

When Connor opens his front door – unlatched because Hank knew, somehow, that he’d be here sooner or later, and he really doesn’t want another broken window – Hank can see him looking for the gun. It’s in the kitchen, stashed away in the top drawer along with the bullets and the quarter-full whiskey bottle. Hank’s allowed himself only one more glass, and he’s been nursing it for the better part of an hour. Waiting, he realises now. He was _waiting_ for Connor to come.

Connor, for once, seems to struggle for something to say. “I’m sorry about the window, Lieutenant. I really thought you’d been attacked… Of course, CyberLife will pay for the damage.”

It’s so guileless, so fucking _Connor_ , that it’s all Hank can do in his drunken state not to start laughing or start crying. He doesn’t know which would be more humiliating. Instead, he takes Connor’s snow-soaked jacket and hangs it to dry beside his own coat.

He tells Connor to stop standing there like a fucking statue and sit down. The sight of him on Hank’s couch, with Sumo sprawled out over his lap, is disorientating beyond words. Having _anyone_ else in this house would be disorientating, Hank grants, after all the years its just been him and Sumo. But it’s a welcome sight nonetheless, and Hank falls asleep to the sound of the Detroit Gears on TV, and Connor talking to his dog in a ridiculously conversational tone.

When Hank wakes up, there’s a familiar, throbbing ache in his skull, a blanket draped over him, and a steaming cup on the coffee table.

***

Hank knows he’s staring at Connor’s freckles as though they’ve done him a personal wrong. Connor thankfully doesn’t notice it, or at the very least doesn’t remark on it. A fine fucking time for the android to find some tact.

They’ve been here for an hour now – Hank had blatantly ignored the looks he’d gotten from the other cops. Yes, it was eight fucking AM and he was here, big fucking deal – and it was out of the fucking blue, after Connor had sat down opposite him at the desk, that Hank had noticed them.

He lasts another ten minutes before his resolve cracks the way it always does where Connor is concerned.

“Okay, I have a question, A _personal_ one.” He can’t help but rib a little, just to watch the way it makes Connor’s head tilt.

Hank can’t believe he’s never noticed the freckles until now. Though he supposes he’s never really _looked_ for them before. It’s only a light smattering; hardly noticeable besides a few darker ones here and there. But Hank has been finding them mind-numbingly distracting for the past sixty fucking minutes, and he needs some kind of justification for them being there.

“Why in God’s name did they give you these?”

He reaches out and pokes one, in a moment of weakness or a moment of bravery. Maybe both. Connor’s skin is soft, his cheekbone is as sharp as it looks, and all of it is very human. If it weren’t for the LED, a spinning and familiar constant at the crest of Connor’s brow, Hank knows he would forget altogether some days.

Connor says the freckles are a harmless addition. CyberLife’s idea of _a nice touch_. Hank says that’s bullshit, and proceeds to give his own explanation.

“They made a cutesy android is what they did! Made you look all innocent and stupid, with your fucking freckles. They didn’t want you to intimidate suspects.” Hank is chuckling before he can stop himself. “They gave you  _freckles_  to appear less threatening. Jesus.”

“Do you have a problem with the freckles, Lieutenant?”

Hank laughs harder, harder than he has in a long time. He’s more grateful now than he was at the bridge for the fact that androids can’t read minds. If only Connor knew exactly how much of a problem Hank had with the damn things. How much he wanted to know if there were more he couldn’t see, and _where_.

“I can get rid of them, if you’d prefer.”

Hank stops laughing, and doesn’t laugh again for the rest of the morning.

“Certain features such as hair and eye colour, and _freckles_ , can be changed if needs be.”

The nerve, the goddamn, fucking _nerve_ of CyberLife. The nerve of anyone who would ask– no, who would _order_ an android to change their appearance, to get rid of something that made them integrally _them,_ was fucking bullshit. It was bad enough that androids were being used in shitholes like the Eden Club. Hank hadn’t considered that they were being taken advantage of elsewhere, over something as small as hair and eye colour. Over something as small as _freckles_.

Hank hadn’t considered a lot of things before Conner came into his life, spilling his whiskey and criticising his diet and slapping him awake and petting his dog and following him around with those stupid shoes and those stupid, fucking freckles.

“Lieutenant, if the freckles bother you, it’s really no trouble to–”

“No, you ain’t changing shit, Connor, it’s your fucking body. All right? It’s _yours_.”

The freckles remain a distraction. Now that he knows they’re there, Hank can’t stop his eyes from straying stubbornly towards them, trying to pick out new ones that he hasn’t found yet. He actually huffs a sigh of relief when Fowler orders them to go and investigate the incident at the broadcast tower.

***

Hank peers out over the edge of the roof, and whistles. It’s a long, _long_ way down, and the deviants had jumped from this height in a goddamn snowstorm. “Pretty fuckin’ impressive, I’d say.”

Connor comes to stand at his side, and Hank sees the small raise of one brow as he looks down too. _Pretty fucking impressive, indeed_ , Hank knows he’s thinking.

He’s getting better at taking apart all those subtle little expressions that Connor likely doesn’t even realise he’s making, and figuring out what each of them _means_. Furrowed brow: determination. That’s always been an obvious one. His jaw twitches: he’s conflicted about something. Head tilt: he’s about to ask a question, or he wants to hear what Hank has to say. Raised eyebrow: either he’s impressed by something, or he’s about to sass Hank something fierce. That particular expression always puts Hank slightly on edge.

Hank wanders the roof another few times, scrutinising the evidence again until there’s nothing left to see and he realises Connor is no longer up there.

When he returns downstairs to the broadcasting room, Connor’s nowhere to be found there either.

“Hey, Chris.” Hank gives the corridor a once-over, just to be sure. Just a few FBI agents, some of their own cops, an android making its way to the elevator. “Where’d Connor go?”

“I told him we’d put the station androids in the kitchen, just in case. Think he went to check if they saw anything.”

Hank barely has two seconds to put the pieces together – androids in charge of the cameras, deviants didn’t break in, androids in the kitchen, Connor in the kitchen, android making its way to the elevator – before the deviant is thrashing for an FBI agent’s gun, and Connor is shooting it in the head with Chris’.

Ordered home by Fowler after the shittiest day Hank’s had in a while, Hank has barely closed the front door before he finally lets himself get a proper look at Connor. Shirt unbuttoned – because half the buttons are fucking _missing_ , torn off thanks to that deviant – and stained a bright blue around where Hank assumes the android’s heart – _pump regulator_ – is.

“Shit” he breathes, because Connor had his fucking regulator ripped out and Hank has no idea what he should do. “You gonna… I don’t know, be all right? We gotta check you over or somethin’, run some sort of… diagnostic… scan thingy?”

Jesus, should he have taken him to CyberLife or somewhere? Hank hadn’t even thought, he’d just brought him straight home. What if Connor needed a replacement regulator, what if it was badly damaged? What if he’d lost too much blood and needed to replenish it? What if–

Connor smiles. That’s another thing Hank has noticed. He’s starting to smile, awkwardly and there’s still a long way to go, but Hank still count them as smiles.

After he’s been assured that Connor is still in working order, Hank orders him to change his clothes with the excuse that he doesn’t want blue stains ruining his couch.

Connor’s CyberLife jacket and shirt are now in his laundry hamper, and he’s wearing Hank’s old DPD hoodie as a substitute.

It’s way too fucking big for him. The sleeves bunch up at his wrists, and he looks plain comical when Hank tugs the hood up over his hair just to provoke a reaction. Connor leaves it up, staring at him blandly with the hood almost covering his eyes and that fucking lock of hair poking out the bottom.

“You saved all our asses today, Connor, you know that?” There had been about a dozen people in the corridor of the broadcast tower, and each one of them was going home to see their families tonight, unharmed and alive, because of Connor.

Hank undercuts the sentiment behind his words by mentioning Reed, making a joke about it. Because if he doesn’t, he’ll start thinking about how different things could have been now if Connor had been the android to look after Cole that night instead.

“Only thing missing was fuckin’ Reed. Man, to have seen the look on that bastard’s face if he was there today. Guy might have even changed his mind about you.”

“Detective Reed’s opinions are of little importance to me.”

Contrary to belief around the precinct, Connor _does_ have something in common with the rest of humanity, then. Hank says as much.

“However, I believe… I believe I have come to consider _your_ opinion to be important.” Connor is tentative when he says it. As though Hank might snap at him like he had at Jimmy’s bar or at the DPD or at the bridge.

As though Hank could have any opinion of Connor anymore that doesn’t put him at the centre of his fucking universe.

Connor asks him if his opinion of androids has changed because of him, and Hank has an overwhelming, irrational need to touch him, to fucking hold him and tell him that he’s brought something to Hank’s miserable existence that he never even knew he needed. That he’s saved Hank’s life in almost every way possible.

Instead, he says, “You’re as dumb as you fuckin’ look,” and grabs a bag of dog food for Sumo. Hank knows in that moment that he’s in far too fucking deep.

Later, when they’re halfway through The Terminator – Connor asked him about a reference he’d made to it at the office, and Hank personally thinks it would be a crime not to educate him first-hand – Hank reaches over and finally, _finally_ , brushes that fucking lock of hair away from Connor’s face.

“So you can see the damn screen,” Hank grunts, defensive and cowardly and pulling his hand back as quickly as he can.

When the credits start to roll, Connor asks Hank if he can put Terminator Judgement Day on. Hank grunts a _yes_ , wants to get drunk, but there’s something about the image of Connor sat ramrod straight on this couch, with a Saint Bernard slobbering on his knees, that stops him. _‘You should stop drinking, Lieutenant. It could have serious consequences to your health.’_

Hank sits at his computer instead, the sound of gunfire and Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sumo’s snoring behind him, and gets a better look at the latest deviancy files.

***

The android disappears, and Connor manages to sit in the chair for a full ten seconds before he’s pacing restlessly around Kamski’s foyer. It was a valiant effort, Hank commends him, watching him stride from picture to magazine to decorative art in the corner.

“Nice girl…” Hank says, just for an excuse to break the anxious silence. Connor’s on edge, he can tell. Anyone would be nervous if they were about to meet their maker.

“You’re right…” Connor’s answer sounds distant, distracted. But then he adds, “She’s really pretty,” and every reserve and insecurity Hank’s ever had crashes down on him in an instant, brutal and punishing.

He’s amused – _embarrassed_ – at the sudden realisation that Connor has _options_. Hank must be lonelier and stupider than he’d originally thought. Of course Connor has options. Younger options, _better_ options. Not that Hank had ever been delusional enough to let himself believe that anything would have happened otherwise. Hell, he’s not sure if Connor is even equipped with–

He cuts that train of thought off before it runs off the rails. Connor is peering at him anyway, head tilted. Waiting for Hank to respond.

“Pretty, huh? Got a crush there, Connor?”

“On the android? No. I don’t have a crush, Lieutenant.”

He’s ashamed at the small part of him that feels relief. Maybe Connor’s emotions don’t span that far anyway. Attraction, desire, _love_ , are complicated emotions even for a human. Though those girls at the Eden Club sure seemed to feel something equating to all that, so what does Hank know?

Meeting Kamski isn’t as big of a deal as Hank had anticipated it to be. CyberLife’s ex-CEO is almost dead-on what he’d expected; elusive, arrogant, and testing Hank’s fucking patience more with every word.

When he puts a gun in Connor’s hand and tells him to shoot, Hank’s had just about enough. “Okay, I think we’re done here. Come on, Connor, let’s go. Sorry to get you out of your pool.”

“What’s more important to you, Connor?” The bastard doesn’t back down. He’s hounding Connor, _pressuring_ him to pull the trigger, to play along with his fucked-up ‘Kamski Test’, and Hank can’t take another second of that flashing yellow circle or the indecisive little twitches of Connor’s jaw.

“That’s enough! Connor, we’re leaving.”

“Pull the trigger–”

“Connor! Don’t!”

“–and I’ll tell you all I know.”

Hank is terrified, genuinely goddamn terrified, that Connor will do it. _‘Maybe you should drop the case. They’ll assign someone else, and I can focus on my mission.’_ All he’d seemed to care about in the beginning was his fucking mission, and Hank still caught glimpses of that attitude now and then. He knew it was hardwired into Connor’s programming; he’d seen it at the highway and on the plantations and during the fight with the Tracis.

Connor’s LED flashes red – _don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it_ – and then he lowers the gun.

“You saw a living being in this android. You felt empathy.”

They walk out into the snow no closer to knowing anything. Hank doesn’t give a flying fuck.

But he also needs to hear it, needs to hear Connor give some kind of explanation for why he hadn't shot. It was one thing to believe Connor alive beneath the bridge, when Hank was piss-drunk and holding a gun to the android’s head. It’s another thing entirely to be stone-cold-sober and watch a tirade of emotions flit across Connor’s face as he spares the life – the _life_ – of another android. Hank needs to know the reasons behind that decision, needs to see what Connor _feels_.

“Why didn’t you shoot?”

“I just saw that girl’s eyes… and I couldn’t. That’s all.”

“You’re always saying you would do anything to accomplish your mission. That was our chance to learn somethin’ and you let it go–”

“Yeah, I know what I should’ve done! I told you, I couldn’t. I’m sorry, okay?”

He sounds sorry. He sounds confused and frustrated. He sounds _human_ , and its evidence enough for Hank.

Connor _is_ _alive_.

“Maybe you did the right thing.”

***

“You’re off the case.”

Hank can’t fucking believe Jeffery _fucking_ Fowler. Besides the bullshit at Kamski’s place, he and Connor have been tracking these goddamn deviancy reports for _weeks_ and they have made some good fucking progress as far as Hank’s concerned. There is no chance, no chance in hell, that he is taking this lying down.

“We’re about to crack the case! I know we can solve it!” It was never persistence that Hank had been lacking the last few years; only motivation, and since Connor’s been busting his ass nearly every second since they met, Hanks felt that motivation’s creeping back bit by bit, day by day. The thought of leaving the case here, uncracked and so close to its tail end, feels downright wrong. “For fuck sake, Jeffery, can’t you back me up this one time?!”

He knows it’s not Fowler’s fault. He knows it’s the FBI and that motherfucker Perkins from the broadcast tower. But when Fowler mentions that Connor’s being sent back to Cyberlife, Hank can’t stomach his voice or that fucking office or the look on Connor’s face for another second.

He’s still silently fuming at his desk when he hears the _clack-clack_ of Connor’s shoes getting closer. Jesus, Hank is going to miss that.

“I’m not programmed to say things like this.” Connor does a lot of things he probably wasn’t programmed to do, like spare deviants and _wink_ and play with Sumo’s ears, so the next thing out of his mouth can hardly come as a surprise to Hank anymore. “But I really appreciated working with you. I know we got off on the wrong foot–”

He smiles when Hank’s smirk interrupts him, and it might be the first, proper smile that Hank’s seen from him. Small and pleased, and _fuck_ he does not want Connor to go back to CyberLife.

“I’m glad you changed your mind about me.”

Hank tells him he’s going to miss him, because he doesn’t know what else he can say. He hopes it conveys at least some of what he actually wants to tell him. That he can’t walk into Jimmy’s bar anymore without the memory of Connor spilling his drink. That he can’t picture his couch without Connor’s legs crushed under Sumo’s weight and some old, shitty sci fi movie on TV. That Connor’s somehow turned Hank’s world view and self-hatred and _life_ around in a mere matter of weeks. That Hank doesn’t know how he’s going to drag himself to the precinct without Connor buzzing his fucking doorbell at six in the goddamn morning every day.

Perkins lurks into the office a few seconds later, like the smarmy piece of shit that he is, and Hank braces himself for the fact that this is it now; the last time he’ll see those freckles and that fucking lock of hair. But then Hank notices Connor’s brow furrowing, and starts to smile.

“You’ve got to help me Lieutenant. We can’t give up.”

And for the first time in a long time, Hank doesn’t want to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I’m not even drunk this time (Hank would be proud??)
> 
> The support on this has been really awesome, so thank you!
> 
>  [tumblr.](https://imogengotdrunk.tumblr.com/)


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